


('Cause) We Got Tiger Teeth

by NinjaSalad



Series: The Life and Times of A Demon, An Angel, and A Human [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (Because They Don't Have To Worry About Heaven/Hell Anymore Lmao), ... - Freeform, A Diner, A Diner Server, A Small Bit Of Strong Language, A.Z. Fell And Co. Bookshop, ADHD Character, Angelic Miracles, Angst, Angst Lite™, Autism, Autistic Character, Aziraphale Has Emotions™, Aziraphale Is Sassy, Aziraphale is Gay For The Snake Man, Aziraphale is Sorta Good With Parsing Emotions But Not At Expressing Them, But Like MAybe 4 or 6 Times idk, Can Be Read As Gen Reader Or Reader Ship Fic, Crowley Has ADHD, Crowley Has Emotions™, Crowley Hisses His S's When He's Emotional, Crowley Is Snakey, Demonic Miracles, Denny's, Do They Have Denny's In England?, EVERYONE Has Emotions™, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fun Facts About Animals With Crowley!, Hurt/Comfort, Just A Random One, Just How I Like It B), Locations Include:, M/M, Magic, Making Fun Of Crowley, Miracles, Miracles All Over The Gosh Darn Place, Multi, No Pronouns Or Body Descriptions Are Used For The Reader, Nonbinary Character, Not Anyplace In Specific..., Other, RSD - Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria, Reader Has Emotions™, Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria, Special Interests, Stimming, Well They Do Now!, but in a cute way, but like, cursing, gender neutral reader, neurodivergent, neurodivergent characters, ok lemme know if i should tag anything else!! ❤️💛💚💙💜, reader has ADHD, shoot i forgot, there's also:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-16 23:49:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19328611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NinjaSalad/pseuds/NinjaSalad
Summary: An unexpected trip down memory lane leads to quite astrangeevening in Aziraphale's bookshop; courtesy of your vivid imagination and great lack of sleep.OrYou remember the first time you and Crowley verbally 'fought,' having only known the Demon for a short time and not exactly on equal ground concerning emotional matters.At least you have your own Guardian Angel to help you figure things out.





	('Cause) We Got Tiger Teeth

**Author's Note:**

> {Title from the song [Tiger Teeth by Walk The Moon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zgEaJw1wEB0)}
> 
>  
> 
> a gracious _thank you_ to my wonderful beta [Fantasticly_Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fantasticly_Anonymous/) for pre-reading this monster of a fic and helping me with misspellings and grammar ‘n whatnot!!  
>   
> u r an angle 💖🐌🌟
> 
>  
> 
> and to the person(s) reading this: please, please _please_ , please _please_ _**please**_ make me go the hell to sleep okay thanks bye ❤️👋🏼🖤
> 
>  
> 
> Oooh here's a neat little tidbit: Demon and Angel are both written in this fic 35 times! Wow! I'm Gay! ❤️💛💚💙💜

''…And so _that’s_ why it’s one of _the best_ things ever made!” you conclude, out of breath; A massive grin upon your face.  
  
  
  
Somehow or another, Crowley and Aziraphale had gotten onto the subject of “favorites” while the three of you were chatting and having lunch at the latter’s bookshop, and in doing so had persuaded you into talking about _your_ absolute favorite subjects, which was indeed a good number of things.

  
The two celestial beings had smiles on their faces—something closer to a smirk in Crowley’s case—from how excited you got retelling one of your favorite series’ entire plotline from start to finish, hands moving about to better describe the goings-ons. And, although sometimes you got distracted and mentioned things only semi-related to it, you managed to get through the entire tale without stopping, aside taking a moment to wet your whistle from time to time.

  
  
Once you’ve finished, Aziraphale sets down their tea and claps excitedly, cheery and cherubic all the while.  
“That was simply splendid! A wonder to behold! Wouldn’t you agree, my dear?“ they ask, turning towards their more saturated counterpart.  
  
  
A grin stretching across his face, the serpentine demon sips his tea with a practiced grace. “I absolutely do, angel,” with that, he turns towards you. “My favorite part was when you did all the different voices; y’practice that a lot?” he asks abruptly, though not unkindly; voice going up in pitch at the question.

  
Embarrassed by all the attention you’re receiving, you glance around the backroom of the bookshop, taking it all in and composing yourself at the same time.  
“No, not really; I’m just good at copying sounds, I guess?” you reply nervously, looking at Crowley’s jacket and fiddling with your own one’s pockets.  
  
  
The two of you had elected to keep your respective warm-wear _on_ this visit, seeing as it’s autumn outside, and the backroom doesn’t appear to have a space heater; probably to make sure none of the Angel’s books catch on fire…as that would be _very bad_ indeed.  
  
  
The Demon raises an eyebrow from behind pitch black shades. “Huh. Well, you do a bang up job of it, if I do say so myself. W-which I do,” he clears up, unnecessarily; seeming a tad flustered as he does so.  
  
  
Seeing the usually suave and collected Crowley try to convince you he’s being genuine in his compliments and nearly as—or more so—perturbed than yourself causes your apprehension to give way to a warm and calm feeling; akin to basking in the sunlight on a mild spring afternoon, or sipping a mug of your favorite wintertime drink.  
  
  
It reminds you of before; of the times you barely knew the rough-around-the-edges but kind demon, and how he would often joke acrimoniously and sarcastically at your expense, to the point of your bewilderment and distress.

 

 

One such instance was only a couple of months after you were introduced by Aziraphale to their then-boyfriend: When you accompanied the duo to a lovely little diner to which you had been enthusiastically invited by the Angel, who—after you were picked up from your residence and told them about your week at _length_ —was at the moment chatting animatedly about the newest _oldest_ books they had gotten their hands on, and the stories behind _getting_ them.  
  
  
  
“And I told them ‘But, surely you have no need for _three_ pristine copies of _The Life And Times Of Fredrik Von Gerst: An Autobiography Detailing The Daily Struggles Of Living In A Provincial Township_?’ and you know what they said to me? _Me?_ Their _longtime_ and _faithful_ patron?” the angelic blond groused, getting out of the Bentley and holding the door open behind them with a quiet _”After you,”_ letting you hop out onto the sidewalk, to which you thank them at the same volume.  
  
  
“I dunno angel, what _did_ they say?” the darkly dressed demon asked with a swaying sashay. Stepping up to the diner doors and pushing them both open dramatically, he holds up three fingers towards the server standing at the front, who grabs menus and gestures you all to a quaint little table near the back with window seating.  
  
  
You roll your eyes good-naturedly at Crowley’s actions, and thank the server for their quick service, only _mildly_ anxiously on your part. They smile kindly at you before walking away with your drink orders.  
  
  
“So what _did_ they say to you, Aziraphale?” you prompt again, distractions out of the way for the time being.  
  
  
Crowley turns his head towards you, an unreadable expression hidden from plain sight.  
  
  
Before you have a chance to ask what’s up, the angel continues telling their story:  
  
  
“Ah, yes! So, for reasons unknown to me, my questions seemed to have…erm, aggravated them somehow? As at that point they had…’palm-desk’d’? ‘head-faced’?—ah, ‘face-palmed,’ thank you, my dear—and told me, point blank, and I quote—so please excuse the language, dears—‘It’s five in the morning; get the hell out of my house, you absolute batshit nutter!’ Me! a, a _‘batshit nutter’_?! What on _Earth_ does that _even_ mean?!” the angel harshly whispers, as if afraid of the other patrons in the bustling diner overhearing.  
  
  
For a couple of seconds, you manage to squash your mirth. Unfortunately, it would take possibly more willpower than your body could contain in a lifetime to hold back your giggles, so you slowly sink down in your seat; laughing almost entirely silently, aside an odd clicking noise in your throat.  
  
  
Crowley seems indifferent to your plight of Not Really Breathing, but comments on it anyways. “Ah-ha, now we know the secret to shutting you up once in a while,” he astringently smirks.  
  
  
This comment, though in perhaps a more comical tone of voice might cause you to—somehow—laugh harder, in this case, the _way_ Crowley says it hits you like a tonne of bricks and sobers you up about as quick, ending your joyous laughter.

  
  
  
Quick as a flash, your entire being fills with a fiery-hot _rage_.

  
  
  
“If you want me to shut the _fuck up_ so badly, then _why the hell_ don’t you _ask_ me to?!” pours out of your scowling mouth, the words _dripping_ acid.  
  
  
Immediately, the sticky feeling of shame and regret coursing through your veins stops you in your tracks.

  
  
  
Your swallow echoes loudly in the silence.

  
  
  
“I…I need to use the restroom, excuse me,” you stand up, unsteadily walking away from your table and your pals. Head cloudy and ears stuffed with cotton, you hear neither of them calling your name, nor the Angel chastise the Demon for being _”So caustic to our_ friend _!”  
_  
  
  
You make it to the All-Gender restroom on unsteady legs, your whole body jittery. Looking in the mirror, you can see how the color has drained from your face, and take as deep a shaky breath as you can. Trembling hands find the sink’s stopper, and twist the knobs to _coldcoldcoldcold_.  
  
  
  
Before you splash the freezing water on your face, you think back on your life. How, if you had done this in your past, people would say that _”You’re just overreacting,”_ and things like _”What, I can’t even make a joke? Geez, you’re so sensitive!”_ and you would wonder.  
  
  
You would wonder _”…is there something_ wrong _with me?”_

 

  
And you would have no answer.

 

  
The door to the restroom opens, and shuts with a resounding _snap_.

  
  
  
The person that just entered doesn’t make a sound, and your heart-rate increases with every passing second.

  
  
  
You _dare_ a surreptitious glance in the mirror.

  
  
  
A relieved breath is heaved, because the person that just came in is _Aziraphale_ , and they’re looking about the room, gaze lost in thought.

  
  
  
They perk up a bit, having noticed you noticing them. They then perk down a bit, having noticed your pained expression.  
  
“Oh dear, are you all right? I know sometimes Crowley can be a bit…much to take in, but that seemed a bit, um, a tad as if…perhaps, that is to say, a ‘ _long time coming_ ’?” they ask in air quotes, concern writ upon their angelic face.

  
  
  
_Ahh, Aziraphale: always able to bring a smile to your face, even if you don’t want them to._

  
  
  
“I just, uh…” your tiny smile trails off as you do; looking down;  _remorseful_.  
  
  
  
Aziraphale comes closer to you, slowly reaches up, and places a warm hand on your shoulder, looking away from your face; a soft smile upon their own.  
“You know, he doesn’t tell anyone this, but Crowley often has outbursts of…well, I don’t want to say ‘Explosive Anger Via Intense Feelings Of Rejection,’ but I suppose that’s what it is,” they hum, rubbing your shoulder in a soothing manner.  
  
  
  
“How…” you choke from emotion; throat closing, and swallow to clear it. “How did— _does,_ he deal with it?” your voice breaks on the last syllable.  
  
  
  
Aziraphale’s eyes dart towards your own teary ones, a fond expression settling in place.  
“Much like this, if you can believe it. So much so, in fact, that right now I believe _he_ is beating himself up about it just as much as you are,” they answer, voice soft and rhythmic, smoothing their hand across to your other shoulder, giving you a pseudo side-hug.  
  
  
“But, you know what he _always_ does afterwards?” the blond quizzes, mouth quirking up into a smirk more befitting a Demon than Angel.  
  
  
  
You sniffle, and lean into the cozy half-embrace, leeching warmth and comfort from your tall best friend.  
“W-what does he do?” your voice warbles.  
  
  
  
Aziraphale leans closer to you, and in a low voice, tells you one of the few Secrets To Life.  
“He sincerely apologizes, talks it out with me, tries his best to do better, and we move on with life. Certainly, every once in a while he’ll get upset and yell, or leave the immediate area until he can parse out his feelings, but he can’t really change how his _brain_ operates, and _I_ understand him,” then, tone soft as silk, “So: why don’t we let _him_ understand _you_ now, hmm?” they ask, smile blindingly sweet.

 

  
Maybe…just maybe, somebody—or in this case, some _bodies_ —really _could_ understand you?

 

  
You take a shuddering breath—as deep a breath as you _can_ —and turn to embrace Aziraphale fully, surprising the Angel, who squeaks out an _”Oh!”_ before hesitantly returning your gesture, rubbing their hands up and down your back; the both of you swaying to-and-fro.  
  
  
“ _Thank_ you, Azira; I don’t know what I’d do without you,” you sincerely thank them; pulling back and looking up, you give them a watery smile.  
  
  
Aziraphale raises an eyebrow, devilish smirk returning.  
“Oh, I can think of quite a few things you could do without me; Cry alone in a bathroom at 3PM on a Sunday, for example,” they chuckle, easily lightening the dour mood in the— _surprisingly_ —clean diner restroom.  
  
  
You laugh along with them, appreciative of their company and _greatly_ helpful wisdom, before an epiphany strikes you.  
“Gasp! We left before we got our drinks! Dang it, now mine’ll be all watery…” you exclaim, thinking about the cool drink you ordered not ten minutes prior to your Mini Mental Breakdown: Party Of Two.

  
  
The Angel’s confused _”Did you_ say _gasp?”_ goes unanswered.

  
  
You quickly splash your face with the the not-so-cold-anymore-either water, prior to realizing there are no paper towels in the bathroom. Before you can even _begin_ to start panicking about _yet another thing_ , your Angel In Shining Armor hands you a miracle’d up cream-colored face-towel—because, apparently, _everything_ needed to be either _white_ , or _cream_ with this gentlefolk—to which you thank them profusely, drying your face as _fast_ as humanly possible; excited—and slightly anxious—to apologize to your best friend’s significant other.  
  
  
You hand the towel back to the Angel—who miracles it away—and, walking back towards the restroom door, you grasp the handle with your now steady and sure grip.  
“Alright! Let’s—…um…the door’s locked,” you state, tugging on the handle with a bewildered mien.  
  
  
“Oops, my apologies; I merely meant to shut it earlier,” Aziraphale sheepishly remarks, snapping to unlock the restroom door.  
  
  
You smile back at them while opening the door, your thanks getting cut off by virtue of your face making contact with a broad chest, covered in soft black clothing.  
  
  
Sputtering from getting what _appears_ to be a very long ascot in your mouth, you back up a step to see Crowley with a hand raised to knock on the restroom door; apparently he either needed to use it himself—highly unlikely, for he is a _Demon_ , and _Demons_ don’t _need_ to use the loo, unless they _want to_ , that is—or, much more likely—he grew concerned at how long the two of you were taking to return, and came to check on you both.

  
  
Yep, that _definitely_ makes more sense.

  
  
“Did you need the loo?” you ask, collecting yourself in the eyes of God. _And_ a Demon. _And also_ an Angel.

  
  
Said Demon’s eyebrows shoot up, before coughing into his previously-raised hand and fiddling with his sunglasses.  
“Ah, eh–ah, no, don’–don’t need to use it; jus’ wanted to make sure y–you were ol’righ’,” he stutters, seemingly embarrassed to be caught in the act of caring about others—besides _Aziraphale_ , of course—and trying to calm himself.

  
  
You blink slowly, head tilting to the side; still not used to how thick Crowley’s accent can get when he’s caught off guard.

  
  
Blessedly, Aziraphale takes point in this situation: corralling both Human and Demon alike back towards their booth, where everyone’s drinks—and also _”Food? Oh, how lovely!”_ —were waiting in impeccable condition, ready to be consumed at a moment’s notice.

 

  
  
And a moment’s notice it certainly _was_.

 

  
  
Halfway through your meal, you deem it as good a time as any to address the elephant in the room without feeling like you might make your lunch leave your stomach the way it entered.

  
  
  
“…Hey, Crowley?” you ask, apprehensive; eyes flicking around the booth at anything and everything.  
  
  
  
“…yea’?” he responds, equally apprehensive; gaze hidden behind penumbric glass.

 

  
  
You look down, fidgeting with the cloth napkin on your lap—summoned into being-ness by the Almost-Frightened looking Demon across from you—and take a deep breath; steadying your nerves.  
  
  
“I’m really sorry for how I reacted earlier; It wasn’t appropriate and I should have handled my anger better, but I didn’t. I’ll definitely work on it now and in the future, and I hope you’ll still want to hang out and stuff…” you finish ineloquently, unsure of what else to say.

 

 

“You—you’re like…me?” a quiet voice asks, tremulously.

 

 

Your head snaps up almost _painfully_ fast, actually yep that _is_ pain ouch that _feckin’ hurts_ a _whole lot oh geez_ your thought-words trail off into muffled giggles of _pain_ as you lay your head down onto the table in front of you, neck muscles seized in paralyzing _agony._

  
  
Aziraphale is quite disturbed by the ‘Giggles of The Damned’ you are currently making, if their _”Oh dear!”_ ’s are any indication.  
  
  
  
“Was…was that a _crack_  just now, or am I imagining things?” Crowley asks, as stunned as he has a right to be, hearing _your entire neck_ crackle like Rice Crispy’s cereal—minus the milk.  
  
  
  
Your continued muffled laughter—which now sounds more like _sobs_ —aside, your neck actually feels pretty good post Crackle-pocalypse, but the _muscles themselves_ still hurt like nothing else.  
  
  
  
“Ch-charlie h-horsssssse,” you manage to quietly sob out. Trying—and failing—to stop your pained laughter, you turn to hitting your thighs to release the tension instead.

 

 

As expected: It doesn’t work.

 

 

Taking pity on you—and not wanting you to hurt yourself more than you _already have_ only _that day_ —both Demon and Angel reach towards you and miraculously cure your _über painful_ muscle cramping, causing you to slump further into the dining table, relieved to be able to breathe normally again.  
  
  
  
“Th-thanks, y’all…” you give a double thumbs up, glad that _that’s_ over with.

  
  
After a moment of gathering your wits—scattered as they may be—you sit up in your seat like Regular McNormal people tend to, keen to continue conversing like a person and not a fallen sack of laughing potatoes.

  
  
“Wait,” your nose scrunches up, thinking face Activated. “What did you mean by ‘you’re like me?’,” you ask, deliberate and slowly, so as not to catch the snake off-guard.

  
  
Said snake peers over the rim of his glasses, giving you what appears to be a once-over; supposedly gauging you in some way and—apparently finding _something_ to be adequate—throws a hand out across the table, palm up.

  
  
You stare at the appendage for a moment, glance up at the owner, then back down at the hand, and reach out your own; slapping the proffered limb in a low-five.

  
  
You and Crowley then have an intense stare-off—possible on your part courtesy of his black as pitch shades.

  
  
Eventually, even the strongest-willed supernatural beings crack Under Pressure: in this case said pressure was Crowley trying not to laugh hysterically at your actions, which he had now lost the battle against and was currently cackling madly.  
  
  
“Oh, oh you are just _rich,_ y’know that?” Crowley chortles, knuckling a mirthful tear away with the hand not currently pressed against his chest; he sighs; lingering giggles escaping wildly.  
  
  
Feeling a bit strange being laughed at but knowing it’s from at least a _friend_ makes it…hurt less? No, it actually feels _nice_ : Being able to make your friends laugh sends a warm and happy squiggle through you, and you _have_ to _let it out_ by wiggling in your seat, hands moving happily, laughing along with Crowley; Aziraphale joining in with an angelic staccato.  
  
  
The table's three occupants' laughter trails off into quiet giggles, and they all sigh happily.

  
  
Crowley takes this moment of peace by the throat and clears his own.

  
  
“Y’know, ‘bout earlier…I was trying to be ‘cool’ and ‘aloof’ and ‘funny’, but I suppose I missed that mark…by a mile,” he grimaces, eyebrows pulled together apologetically. “Sorry ‘bout that; didn’t mean to hurt you, but…I did,” he takes a deep breath. “Is there anythin’… _anythin’_ I can do to make _this_ ,” he gestures between the two of you, “Better?”  
  
  
You shrug at the Demon, and lean forwards, an elbow making it’s way to the table.  
“Well, _I_ apologized, and _you_ apologized, and we definitely both _meant_ it, so we’re enemies forever; right?” you wink at him, a wry smile quickly growing to be genuine, framed by your hand on your cheek.  
  
  
Crowley’s emotive eyebrows shoot up in surprise, a massive grin lighting up his features.  
“Oh ho _ho_! So the human _can_ dish it out! You _so_ owe me ten, angel!” the Demon holds his hand out to the aforementioned Angel, fingers wiggling.

 

  
Now it’s the Angel’s turn to use The Eyebrow; with the added flair of a disappointed  _frown_.

 

  
“Now Crowley, I never _said_ I’d bet on that and _you_ know it!” they turn away and cross their arms with a _huff_ , but peek open an eye and smile at you to show they’re bluffing.

  
  
You look over at Crowley, who appears to have frozen in place, and might _actually_ be making dial-up modem sounds.

 

 

  
Though he recovers quickly enough, that _wily_ ol’ Demon.

 

  
  
As you watch the odd couple bicker in front of you, a warm, fuzzy feeling rises from your core and into your chest; fizzling into sparks of happiness that blaze energy throughout your being: setting your heart aflame with the pure love you have for these two silly, _wonderful_ …well, _people_.  
  
  
  
Before you have a chance to say something odd and make the moment awkward or— _heaven_ and _hell forbid_ —even _more_ silly; Aziraphale picks up their so-far uneaten slice of cream-pie, brings it up and _into_ Crowley’s face; thusly ending their argument.

 

  
  
…For the moment.

 

  
  
And in that moment you _swear_ you _actually heard_ a pin drop, or perhaps it was the Demon Crowley’s patience shattering, but, in any case, _shit_ was _about_ to _go **down.**_

  
  
Now, ever since you’ve met them you have _never_ been in _actual fear_ for your safety, but you still do what _any_ sane person would in this situation, and sink beneath the table to hide from the Wrath of a Godlike Being.

 

  
  
…But peek _juuust_ enough over the edge to witness it anyways.

 

  
  
Crowley is just kind of…sitting there: Pie upon his brow. And nose. And sunglasses. And—well, pretty much every square-inch of his angular face.

  
  
You try to suppress your laughter.

 

  
  
You don’t succeed.

 

  
  
Crowley’s head snaps to look at you, a snarl in place, before realizing he has a weapon at his disposal, and slides a few digits through the pie-filling coating his face: Weapon Locked And Loaded.

 

  
  
He grins.

 

  
  
You don’t.

  
  
“I don’t suppose I could use the ‘needing to use the restroom’ excuse again, could I?” you at least _try_ to get out of experiencing Demonic Retribution.  
  
  
  
“Nope,” he pops the ‘p,’ grin growing in size and devilish nature.  
  
  
  
“Ah. Right, then,” you take off like a shot for the diner doors, now _actually_ fearing for your safety.

  
  
  
  
Your fingertips brush the handle of salvation, but moments before you can grip it tight—

 

—A weight lands on your shoulder, bringing you back to the present with a flailing jolt. Arms pinwheeling in your panic, you seize the offending limb in a vice-like grip and pant heavily from the adrenaline pushing your heart rate _entirely_ too high.  
  
  
“Whoa there, honeybun; you alrigh’?” a dark sleeve swims into view, your gaze traveling up the length of it to…a face.  
  
  
  
“One sec; brain machine broken…” you mumble, shaking your head vigorously to clean the fluff stuck in your cloudy mind.

 

Blinking rapidly—and realizing you’re _still_ holding someone’s arm in a too-tight grip—you manage to force your hand to let go by pulling it back towards your body, only noticing the lingering ache in it after slapping yourself in the face on accident: motor functions not having _completely_ returned yet.

 

“…Ow? …yea', ow,” you mutter, sensations still reloading.  
  
  
  
“Are you quite alright, dear? It would appear you fell asleep sitting up; perhaps you would like a ride home for a good night’s rest?” the white wearing fluffy-haired person asks from like, a _billion_ miles away; an entire chair’s length over from the black clothed person-that-woke-you-up-from-a- _wonderful_ -nap-by-dumping-a-hand-on-your-shoulder-which-is-a-rather- _rude_ -thing-to-do.

  
  
  
You stare at the two of them, your face _definitely_ covered in drool.

  
  
“…bwuh?” comes your eloquent reply.

  
  
The two share a look, probably meant to convey _”Ah, our favorite sleepyhead,”_ or perhaps something like _”Wow, this kid has_ got _to get_ more  _sleep,”_ or even _”Let’s put our honeybun to bed_ right _now; that sound good to you, love?” “Why, yes, indeed it_ does _, my dear,”_ and so which-ever of those things it might have been that they communicated silently to each other, it will forever remain a mystery.

 

~•——————— 😈🌟😇 ———————•~

  
  
At this point, your head is so full of sleepiness that you have no brain-to-mouth filter, and begin saying the _zaniest_ of things.

 

  
“Cromwowley, why’s it that horsies have four-and-a-half legs, but croc-a-gators only have two sets of eyelids?” you ask semi-incoherently, swinging your legs as the addressed redhead carries you upstairs to the extra bedroom he created with a demonic miracle for such cases…such as this.  
  
  
  
This line of questioning actually gets Crowley to slow down to an almost-stop, glancing over at Aziraphale who is currently making as confused a face as he is, before resuming his—and by extension, also _your_ —ascent.  
  
  
  
“Crocs have a second set of eyelids because _I_ have a second set of eyelids; made in God’s imagination and all that…but why _does_ a horse have four-and-a-half legs?” he asks with confused countenance as the three of you reach the upper-landing.  
  
  
  
You shrug haphazardly. “That’s what _I_ wan’a know, lizard boyyyy,” you almost-shout, leaning backwards until you’re hanging upside-down in the Demon’s grip, swinging side to side with a quiet—but still _very_ enthusiastic— _”Wheeee~!”  
_  
  
  
Crowley tightens his hold on you, making sure you don’t bonk your head on the walls or floor, and turns his upper-half towards his other-half. “Be a dear and get the door for us, angel?” he gestures at the bedroom’s rainbow door with his perfectly coiffed hair.  
  
  
“Why certainly, my dear,” they reply, walking around your flailing arms to depress the handle, and push open the door; gesturing with a flourish after doing so. “After you, Crowley,” they smile; “And after _you_ as well!” the latter is said to your still upside-down being, a playful _”boop!”_ accompanying a soft poke to your nose.  
  
  
You flail about some more, but _this_ time while singing the chorus of _Baltimora’s_ _Tarzan Boy_ , causing Crowley to bark out a laugh at your non-sequitur and almost drop you. _Almost_ being the keyword here; As you see, Demons are generally “ _Bad_ ,” and so are “ _Bad_ ” at what they do; Crowley, being a “ _Good_ ” Demon, means he is “ _Good_ ” at what he does.

 

  
  
And what might he be “ _Good_ ” at doing?

 

  
  
Why, tucking his loved ones in and putting them to sleep, of course!

 

  
  
The Good Demon heaves you back up into his arms and moves through the door frame, snapping on a lamp as he goes. He, however, does not look down, and as a side effect, stumbles over a magnetic doodle board which decides it would _quite_ like a ride across the room with him; it attaches itself to the underside of Crowley’s foot, and the Demon has to shake it off while letting out a muffed _”Shit!”_ , before regaining his balance _and_ dignity; his significant other giggling at his actions.  
  
  
  
“Loo’sk like yo _ooou_ have a magnetic personality, snabyyy!” you giggle, patting Crowley’s shoulders alternatively with your wet-noodley sleep-deprived hands.  
  
  
  
Crowley grumbles and sighs, apparently deciding that arguing with you when you’re like this just _isn’t_ as fulfilling as it is when you’re decidedly _not_ like this.  
  
  
  
Watching where he’s walking _this_ time, he waltzes to the side of the bed frame; Aziraphale pulling the covers back for him, he settles you under them, tucking you securely within; giving your legs a firm pat once he’s finished.  
  
  
  
“Alrigh’, so you’re snug as a bug in a rug; did’jya need anythin’ else for tonight?” The Demon questions, _extremely_ expressive eyebrows scrunched up in exasperation and frazzlement; the Angel standing a foot-or-so away with hands held comfortably behind their back, smiling fondly at the two of you.  
  
  
  
_Your_ face scrunches up in thought. “I need my pj’s and to brush my teeth…but I didn’t bring a thooth brush,” you pout, semi-upset at messing up your bedtime routine, but also having a fun enough time that _that_ fact doesn’t seem to bother you too much, and since you stopped caring approximately three seconds ago; settle for running your hands over the _soft_ comforter atop the _miraculously_ warm bedsheets.  
  
  
  
Crowley—once _again_ —raises an eyebrow. “That all?” and with a demonic _snap_ , you are suddenly dressed in your favorite pajamas; your mouth feeling about as clean as it does post dental-checkup.

  
  
A surge of sleepiness hits you, leaving you feeling a _lot_ more tired than previously; a _massive_ yawn escaping you, accompanied by a crackling sound from your jaw causing Crowley to flinch, then try to compose himself with a quiet _cough_.  
  
  
  
“Righ’, then; s’pose we shall leave you to it?” he murmurs, backing away from your bedside; reaching up a hand in preparation to switch off the lamp for you.  
  
  
  
“Wai’; c’n y’u leav’ i’ o’?” you mumble, clumsily pulling a hand out from under your blankets and flopping it atop them; seconds from dropping off into unconsciousness.  
  
“I don’ li’ th’ d’rk…”

  
  
This gives the Demon and Angel pause, glancing at one another; having _not_ been privy to this piece of knowledge prior to just now.

  
  
Aziraphale steps forwards, tucks your arm below the bedding, and moves a hand over your supine form; hovering mere inches from your forehead.  
  
  
“Shall I?” they ask; fully expecting a _”No,”_ from their other-half, but pleasantly surprised by what the Demon _does_ respond with.  
  
  
  
“…how ‘bout together?” he suggests, aiming for _nonchalant_ but missing the mark; smacking right into puppy-dog levels of _excitement_.  
  
  
Aziraphale convulses with suppressed giggles, trying to keep from waking you up _scant seconds_ after you’ve slipped off into slumber. Crowley makes a face, mocking his angel’s titters; and slides a palm along their arm, placing his hand over theirs to rest upon your forehead.  
  
  
  
“Ready to make sure our _honeybun_ has wonderful dreams all night long, love?” the Demon smirks; _warm_.  
  
  
  
“But of course, my dear,” the Angel smiles; _soft_.

 

  
  
A _soft_ but _warm_ light fills the room, flowing from the two cosmic beings who've infused the world with both _Light_ and _Darkness_ since the dawn of creation; graceful shadows dance alongside the gentle glow, sweeping the walls and ceiling in a swaying oceanic wave of _affection_ and _care_ , before settling into twinkling stars, dotting the room like a constellation light projector with no physical source; three celestial sparks standing out from the rest, wreathed in the shimmering swirls of the Alpha Centauri; The _perfect_ nightlight for the _perfect_ person.

 

  
  
You sigh in your sleep, snuggling down into your sheets while nuzzling your head up into the hands still caressing your noggin.  
  
  
Crowley and Aziraphale squeak in shared _joy_ , whip their heads towards their other-half, and _speak_ at the same time; talking over each-other in their excitement.

  
  
“Did’jyu see _that_ —“

  
  
“—Oh my word that was _absolutely_ precious—“

  
  
“—I _think_ being _that_ cute is a _sin_ —“

  
  
“— _sin_ fully _divine_ , you mean—“

  
  
“—Y’know I might actually _throw up_ , ‘sss _too_ —“

  
  
“—Adorable in _every sense_ of the word—“

  
  
“—That-that-that, that should be _illegal_ , angel—“

  
  
“—Yes, if someone weaponized the _sheer loveliness_ right in front of us, the Earth would be _doomed_ —“

  
  
“—Oh angel; we’re in deep this time—“

  
  
“—What was the _last time_ we were _this_ deep in something? Ah yes, when Heaven and Hell had scheduled _life_ as we—“

  
  
“—Know it to end up in a ‘ _glorious_ ’ pile of mushy goo? Yeah, I was _there_ —“

  
  
“—And in being so, helped Earth as we know it _not_ end, for which, by the way, I am still _very_ grateful—“

  
  
“—If you say that _one more time_ , angel, I swear to _fu_ —“

  
  
“Hey, could y’all keep it down? Some people are trying to _sleep_ here; keyword _’trying,’_ ” you comment with closed eyes, definitely sounding _way_ more coherent than you’ve been for the past half-hour-or-so.  
  
  
Angel and Demon stare down at you, wide eyed and shocked; Crowley’s sunspecs sliding down his face and revealing slitted pupils, _that’s_ how shocked he is.  
  
  
  
“Wh-euh-whu-whe-wha-uh,” he splutters, absolutely _flabbergasted_ at your clarity post Magical-Demonically-Angelic-Induced-Slumber.

  
  
“Yeah, can I get uhhhhhhhh…beese churger,” you continue, _actually_ incoherent—to the duo, at least.

  
  
“I…believe our ' _honeybun_ ' is sleep-talking,” Aziraphale leans over your head, gently stroking your cheek, “And is not _actually_ cognizant at the moment,” they smile, amused.  
“Humans _never_ cease to amaze us, right, my dear?” They turn their head, facing their Demon; mirthful gaze lighting up with _pride_.  
  
  
Crowley blushes at Aziraphale’s intense emotions, slit pupils dilating in _adoration_ , alas, he’s still a Demon and getting used to processing hisss emotions with all the freedom he now has—away from all the rest of the Fallen Ones and their Toxic Ways—so instead of replying to his love, he looks down at you; a peaceful calm _flowing/washing/surging/breaking_ over him.

  
  
A tranquil smile graces his face.

  
  
“Let’s go, angel,” he gives the fluff upon your crown a ruffle, turning and walking away from your peacefully slumbering form. On their way out, he slots a hand with his angel’s own, tugging it up to leave a kiss upon the back of it, causing the Angel to blush. As the angelic and demonic beings make their exit, you murmur in your sleep; something that causes them to freeze in place.

  
  
_”G’night, love ya'll…”_   you exhale; almost inaudible.

  
  
They glance at each other, and respond in kind.

  
  
“We love you too, _honeybun_ —”

  
  
“—And wish you pleasant dreams all night, dear.” 

 

  
  
Your guardians; Demon and Angel, cross the threshold…

 

  
  
…and the door shuts gently behind them with a faint _click_.

**Author's Note:**

> if you're rather very gay for both _a demon and an angel_ clap your hands *breaks hands clapping them*


End file.
